


take my hand (wreck my plans)

by spidermanhomecomeme, spideysmjs



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Peter Parker is a Dumbass Thot, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/pseuds/spidermanhomecomeme, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideysmjs/pseuds/spideysmjs
Summary: “Have fun. On your date.”“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, thanks.”“But nottoo much fun,”he teases, attempting to crack a joke that Michelle hopes makes him feel the same way she does right now. She doesn’t mention it though, only returning him a pointed look.He panics. “I didn’t–I mean–”“Just messing with you,” she grins.Peter clears his throat. “Cool.”
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 30
Kudos: 118





	take my hand (wreck my plans)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekrest/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my favorite egg, from your choatic children. Love you, Seek! <3

Michelle wakes up to the sizzling smell of bacon and a hint of slightly burnt pancakes. 

She allows herself to sit there, rubbing her eyes into wake; the sunlight seeps through the thin curtains against the small window that faces an oddly empty street of Queens. 

Five minutes later and the aroma of their cheap store-brand coffee fills up the entire apartment reminding her of the lack of ventilation this fortunately rent-controlled but unkempt living space holds. At least living in it with Peter makes her feel better, like they’re trudging through it together–like she’s not alone, nor will she ever be alone. 

She stretches out of bed, basking in the beauty of sleeping in for the weekend and the excitement of having a big day ahead of her. Michelle’s not usually one to mull over dates with panic, but tonight is her fourth date with Brad, and although she’s not quite confident about her feelings towards the guy she met at the M.O.M.A. a month ago—buzzed on champagne at a volunteer gala—she needs to get dick. 

Like yesterday. 

Tonight will be the night. 

She even convinced herself to go back to the flea market and purchase the lingerie set Peter pointed out would make her collarbones look pretty cool. She heads into their shared bathroom to wash her face, clearing her mind of the nerves that crawl up and down her spine when she thinks of her date, still confused as to why she woke up so anxious about it. 

She doesn’t even have strong feelings for Brad. 

Not at all. 

Michelle’s intentions from the beginning of talking to Brad were always clear, but getting to her goal of having sex with someone is taking too long—especially if she’s not interested enough to make the effort. 

Then again, if Tonight’s the Night, then Michelle doesn’t have much to wait for in the first place. Fuck it. 

After getting ready for the day, Michelle finds herself sitting, legs perched on the chair in front of her, at the table just outside of the kitchen. Peter’s plating both of their meals, balancing them on his wide and dense arms and placing them carefully in front of her. She raises her eyebrow.

“You’re in a good mood,” she points out. His smile expands, widening an amount Michelle didn’t know was possible. Her heart jumps, but only out of shock, she presumes. 

“Passed my lab practical,” he says, shrugging like it’s not a big deal like he isn’t one of the smartest people she knows. “Got invited to the Chancellor’s dinner because of my research in stem cells and skin regeneration.” 

“Wow. Big day,” she sips the coffee that was already placed in front of her before she came out of the bathroom. It tastes just right, warm and comfy, and filled with a trust that comes in the little cracks of life that are too small to examine. Somehow, Peter makes her want to explore all of them. “So you’re celebrating with May?”

His eyes brighten. “Yeah. Farmer’s market then dinner. Probably pizza.”

“It _is_ your celebration.” 

“Yeah,” he says, cheeks turning pink, but Michelle refuses to make eye contact with him, too afraid that if she looks at Peter long enough, she’ll just have to tell the truth. Whatever the _truth_ is because she surely doesn’t know. “You should come with.”

“What?” she asks, hands shifting and nearly spilling already room temperature coffee on her fingers. 

“To like dinner or something. Meet me–us–there?”

She grins. And then. “Dammit.”

“Oh,” he says. “It’s–it’s okay.”

“No,” she says quickly, cheeks warm and heart almost pounding for realizing how quickly she’d forgotten about her plans. “I have a date. With Brad.” 

“Right!” Peter’s voice is high-pitched, the same tone in his voice when he used to get away from Academic Decathlon practices by convincing Mr. Harrington he’d be back as soon as possible. Harrington fell for it everytime, but Michelle knows it’s because despite his absence at practices, Peter still carried the team. 

Sometimes it surprises her how dumb Peter can be outside of academics. 

For one, he burnt his fingers brewing the coffee—like he does every time—because he’s too impatient to wait for MJ to wake up and do it. 

Two, he never wears layers even when it’s cold. Sure, she doesn’t understand how his body temperature works because of the spider bite, but it wouldn’t hurt to wear another jacket once in a while. 

Three, he gets nervous and too talkative when she mentions her romantic life. It’s ridiculous. She wonders why Peter would even get frazzled about her stories in the first place; they’ve been best friends for several years now, and she encourages him about his dating life–the little one that he has. 

Sometimes his hesitance makes her wonder if there’s more to it than Peter’s general lack of social skills. Then, he snaps her out of her thoughts too quickly for her to decide where she stands about Peter. Or had she been thinking about canceling her date with Brad?

“MJ?” he taps her back into reality. She blinks. “So are you?”

“What?”

“Excited. About your date?” 

“Oh,” she laughs, setting the cup of coffee down. She smacks her hands together. “Yeah. Yeah. Tonight could be...something. I’m hoping.”

“Something? With _Brad Davis_?” Peter teases, raising his eyebrows relentlessly in her face. She rolls her eyes. He says Brad’s name like it’s meant to be something for her, and there’s a questionable pull in her gut that’s trying to tell her an answer she can’t quite decode yet. 

He doesn’t mean anything to her. Not yet. But she also doesn’t know when. She’ll know when and what she’s feeling the moment she looks into Brad’s eyes and notices something new. That magical spark that people talk about—if it applies to him, of course. 

She bites into her eggs, the perfect amount of seasoning sprinkled on top, edges crispy and brown. With her mouth full of the world’s best breakfast, she answers, “Might as well try to get it in _while_ learning more about him.”

He laughs at her blunt response, shaking his head as he stabs his last bite of pancakes before shoving it in his mouth. Michelle wrinkles her nose. She also realizes Peter’s almost done eating while she’s only continued to sip on her coffee—too distracted by her own worry for her brain to work its motor functions.

“Well, I wish you good luck,” he says, jumping out of his seat and clearing his dishes. 

“I can wash them,” she offers. He smiles with gratitude and drops the plates and utensils in the sink. 

“Thanks,” he says, a cheerful singsongy tune to his voice. Then, he stops right before he sneaks into his room. “I forgot to wash my lab coat yesterday.”

“Mhm. _Forgot_.” 

He spins around. “MJ, can you-”

“Just toss it in my hamper,” she waves him off, only now beginning to pick at the pancake he cooked for her. 

His eyes soften at her. The sunlight from the living room window bounces off his face. Mornings look good on him. “You’re the best.” 

“I know.”

He runs out of his room, lab coat in his fist, and slides into her room. Once he’s back out in just a few seconds, he thanks her again. 

“I was going to do laundry today anyway.” It’s the truth. Michelle’s being honest—not making excuses. 

“I owe you a lot. I’ll bring home a new dessert for you to try from wherever I eat with May.”

“Deal,” she smiles. A beat. Peter looks down at his toes making circles on their wooden floor. 

“Have fun. On your date.” 

“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, thanks.”

“But not _too_ much fun,” he teases, attempting to crack a joke that Michelle hopes makes him feel the same way she does right now. She doesn’t mention it though, only returning him a pointed look. 

He panics. “I didn’t–I mean–”

“Just messing with you,” she grins.

Peter clears his throat. “Cool.”

“I’m telling ya, Peter, the sooner you start separating your whites from the rest of your clothes, is the day I can call you a real adult.”

“May,” Peter says, ushering her to the side as a man with a cart full of winter fruits pushes through the closed down street of the mall. The Farmer’s Market is always a great time. He’s brought MJ here before once. May ended up haggling an original copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ for her by flirting with the vendor. “I can’t afford two loads of laundry.”

“I don’t see why you and MJ don’t just split the cost.”

Peter nearly stops walking when May mentions her name. “I dunno. She has her own laundry.” 

He can basically feel May roll her eyes. He acts like he doesn’t notice. 

“Let’s buy some oranges,” she changes the subject. They stop at the tent of fresh fruits where the man had ended up. 

“MJ likes kara karas. Those are pretty good. She bought them last time and I was convinced.” 

May lifts an eyebrow. Peter’s entire face fills with confusion, cheeks flushed with no explanation. 

“Nothing,” she answers a question he was too afraid to ask. “Get some kara karas.”

He grins, excited, and hands squeezing the oranges to check if they’re juicy enough. His grasp is gentle so that he doesn’t break the oranges in half on accident like last month, even if his fingers smelled citrusy fresh the entire day.

They wander around the market, window shopping like they do every time they go aside from grabbing fresh produce. May always takes her time at the houseplants tent, and Peter finds samples of essential oils to take home because he knows MJ loves putting tea tree oil on her temples to relax. Or was it eucalyptus? He usually sneaks two samples.

He doesn’t buy anything today, still feeling thrown off at her date this week—already planning in his head a long patrol so he doesn’t have a chance of running into _Brad Davis_ in the middle of the night. Peter decides early that he’ll be sleeping in tomorrow, RE: the same reason but in the daytime. 

“What are MJ’s favorite flowers?” May asks. 

Peter jumps. “Why?” 

“I haggled with that lady over there—I get two bouquets instead of one.” She smiles. “So what are they?” 

Dahlias. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, okay.”

“It’s not like I should know those things. We’re roommates.”

“Okay, Peter.”

A beat. The guilt of lying—even if it’s the most harmless—to May gets to him. “Dahlias.”

All he receives from May is crossed arms and an _I told you so_ look. 

May walks off, chatting with the vendor before the final exchange, and makes her way back to Peter, holding out the bouquet to him. He blinks. “What?”

She rolls her eyes as if Peter’s not getting the picture. “Can you take this home?”

“Sure,” he says, grabbing it and placing them carefully in his backpack. She scrunches her face. “I can’t promise they’ll look good after I go patrol tonight.”

May shrugs. “It’s the thought that counts anyway.” Then, she stops walking. “Don’t lose the backpack though.”

Peter laughs, slinging the backpack around his shoulders again as he makes his way toward the end of the market. “I won’t lose the backpack, May.”

_What does one cook for a dick appointment?_

That’s what Michelle wonders as she stares blankly into the fridge, her lips twisted in thought, fingers tapping against the door, at a loss. 

Obviously, she doesn’t need to get too fancy with it. Something basic would suffice. Sure, she could ask Brad what he wants, poke and prod to find out if he’s a picky eater, but then again, she’s not sure she cares enough. It’s not like dinner’s going to be the main event anyway. It’s a bridge, almost, connecting the two masses of land; him entering the apartment and him inside her. 

She settles on the classic dollar store box of pasta and… some sauce. She’s not sure what. 

Peter always really likes a good pesto, so she figures it’s safe to go with that. 

Then, as she’s filling the pot with water, there’s that feeling again, and she wonders if it would have been better to just hang out with Peter and May. Brad’s not a bad guy, necessarily. He’s just that, though; a guy. A guy that she doesn’t really know that well, and frankly, isn’t all that excited to see. 

Aside from running into him at the Yayoi Kusama exhibit, they don’t have a lot in common. And aside from his distinguishable knowledge on that exhibit specifically, Brad is kind of… a himbo. And not in the way Peter’s a himbo—Peter’s actually smart. High IQ and every accolade to prove it. 

Michelle sighs, coming to the conclusion that if she’s made it this far in her quest for dick, she might as well just get it while she can.

After dinner’s basically made and set up—easy peasy—she goes to her room, leaning against the door behind her as she tries to steady her rising heart rate. There’s a strange tugging in her gut, one that she immediately brushes aside as she moves to her dresser, pulling from the top drawer the lingerie she’d bought.

It’s not specifically for Brad, per se, but she thinks it’ll definitely help her case. 

It’s also not at all because Peter said he liked it. 

The lace is pretty blue, soft, and delicate. Blood rushes to her face, the image of it being—gently—ripped off of her causing a warmth to flare in her cheeks. She pictures his face when he pulls off the dress she’s going to wear, the look in his eyes as they rake over her body.

In her excitement, she puts it on, struggling momentarily with the ties and clasps. 

Both the bra and panties fit her perfectly, as she’d hoped for—the purchase was, again, a little bit of an impulse buy, so she hadn’t thought to take a moment to try it on before throwing her debit card at the cashier. 

But as she turns to look at herself in the mirror, she can’t help but feel that something’s not right.

It’s not as if it looks bad. At all. It looks _amazing_ if she can say so herself. Brad’s dick doesn’t have a _chance._

Yet that unsettled feeling is back, churning faintly in her stomach, crawling up her spine, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. Her lips twist in thought as she stares at her own reflection, her hands running over the soft lace. Her expression is set in deep concentration, brows furrowed and gaze focused, willing this to somehow _look_ and _feel_ better. 

_God, what am I doing?_

It doesn’t get any better the longer she stares at herself. Brad’s a nice enough guy, but… she really doesn’t like him this much. To go all out for him? Dinner? Nice, pretty lingerie? Absolutely not. 

Really, none of this was for him. 

With an exaggerated sigh, she falls back on her bed. 

_Well, fuck._

She couldn’t _really_ cancel, could she? Well, she could technically. She didn’t owe Brad anything. More than anything, it was the anxiety that came from calling so last minute, when the guy’s supposed to be there in less than half-an-hour. 

No, she needs an excuse. A believable one. 

It’s a rule Peter’s made for himself from almost the very beginning of his days as a vigilante superhero to _never_ , under any circumstances, fight or swing while internal monologuing. Bad things tend to happen when he’s not paying attention. 

Like now, for instance. 

One minute, after webbing his backpack to the wall, he’s wondering what MJ’s making Brad for dinner, what they’re going to talk about, what they’re going to _do_ , the next he’s whacked upside the head with a duffel bag full of the cash—about ten thousand in hundreds—the very same one he’s trying to keep from leaving the bank. He swears there’s more than a few gold bricks in there too, given how he starts to see those little cartoon birdies when he opens his eyes again. 

It happens again, dodging once too late when one of the goons lands a sharp, bruising kick to his side when he’s caught remembering how MJ had joked so openly about getting laid with him. 

And again, as he’s shoved through one of the glass barriers when he spends a second too long thinking about what May had meant by her pointed looks and the Dahlias she’d told him to give to MJ.

It’s hard not to think about any of that, though, because he can’t think about anything else even if he tries. For some reason, his stomach’s been in knots all morning, all afternoon through his visit with May, something tugging and twisting at his gut every time he so much as thinks about MJ. 

With everything going on in his dumb brain, he’s almost surprised that he even catches all the guys, webbing them all to different parts of the walls and floors, depositing the moneys bags on one of the half-destroyed counters—one that, you guessed it, he’d been thrown into. Criminals were getting craftier and stronger these days, he’d give them that.

By the end of it all, he’s battered and bruised, and he’s sure that one of his ribs is at least a little bit cracked from the one of the pillars falling on him. What was supposed to be stopping a simple bank robbery turned into a compilation of the world’s stupidest stunts. A real episode of Jackass. 

There’s a limp to his step, the metallic taste of blood on the inside of his lip, and he winces as he gives a firm salute to the police officers that had finally managed to show up. It’s evident from the sharp pain in his side that he can’t continue his patrol like this. The best thing to do at this point would be to go home, patch-up, and head back out. Nothing too out of the ordinary for him. 

But just as he starts for one of the low light posts, he freezes. 

MJ’s home, and there’s a strange lump in his throat when he’s reminded of her date with _Brad_. 

_Shit._

These aren’t really the injuries he can just ignore. Sure, he’s got some pretty sweet enhanced healing capabilities, but it’s better to make sure those wounds close up correctly, that his bones don’t fuse awkwardly, or whatever. The speed at which he heals is not necessarily equal to the quality of _healing_. 

He sucks in a breath as he takes a very wrong step, and decides at that moment to fuck it all. He’ll go home, be as quiet as he can, and sneak out before either MJ or Brad notice. 

He’s not sure he can manage actually _swinging_ home, given how his arms scream in protest when he tries. No, after getting his ass handed to him as it had been, he takes the bus, ignoring the stares—some wary, some starstruck, some confused—as he sits quietly in his seat. 

Of course, he gives up that seat as soon as an old lady comes on, but it’s fine.

When he finally gets home, after at least ten minutes of moping deliberation mixed with a half-hearted pep-talk at the bottom of the apartment complex, he decides taking the stairs is not worth the pain. He chooses the lesser of two evils, grunting and groaning as he crawls up all seven floors, and he can somehow still feel the roughness of the brick wall through his suit as it stings his already sore hands and feet.

He winces, eyes screwing shut as he opens the window. He crawls in as silently as he can, gritting his teeth as he holds himself up on the ceiling, biting back a string of curses. 

There’s a sense of relief underneath all of the pain that comes from not hearing anything at all on the other side of his bedroom door. No evidence of another strange presence. 

So Brad’s not here yet. 

That’s good, at least.

The feeling is short-lived, though; as he drops to the floor below, as he starts to peel off his sweaty suit, he loses his footing, collapsing face first on the hardwood floors. He thinks his head hits his desk on the way down, but he’s not sure, given the way he only sees a flash of white when he opens his eyes.

It must have made quite a racket, because not five seconds later, MJ’s bursting through his bedroom door, concern etched in her expression. 

He’s a sight for sure, sprawled out on the ground, half-naked. 

But it takes Peter less than a second to notice that Michelle, staring at him, in a strikingly similar state of undress. While she’s not covered in cuts and bruises like he is, and she’s not struggling to take off a skin-tight spandex suit, it’s more of what she _is_ wearing that makes his mouth go dry. 

“Are you okay?” She asks, he thinks, as she instantly moves to his side, helping him sit up. He can’t really hear anything over the ringing in his ears. 

Her hand on his shoulder is gentle, but her touch almost burns. It takes everything in him to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head as his gaze drags down from her face.

It’s that blue number they’d seen at the flea market together; the one he’d so happened to make a small comment on that may or may not have had something to do with it looking nice on her. He just thought it’d make her collarbones look good. Or something. He doesn’t remember exactly what he said. 

But he can’t tell if it’s excitement or devastation that he feels to find that he’d been right. 

They _do_ look really nice. 

Cool even.

“Peter?” 

Her voice yanks him out of his thoughts, and he realizes that he’s blatantly staring at her, his eyes following the curve of her breasts, the line of her bare waist and stomach, the way the pretty blue lace delicately lays across her skin. 

He offhandedly wonders how soft it is.

His face is no doubt the exact shade of red as his suit. 

“Oh, um—” Peter sputters, now not knowing where to look. He settles for the ceiling. “Yeah. I’m good.” 

He can _feel_ MJ’s raised brow without even looking at her, the way she’s pressing her lips together in thought. 

“You look nice,” he offers dumbly. 

It’s then that Michelle seems to remember what she’s wearing. Instinctively, her arm twitches to cover herself, but she holds back. 

“Thanks,” she replies, just as dumb, not acknowledging anything about how she’s only in fancy underwear. Her gaze falls to his chest, brow furrowing in concern at the bruises littering his skin. There are cuts all over his arms, a deep gash on the back of his shoulder. After a beat, she gives him a gentle, if not a slightly awkward, pat on the head. “Wait—wait here.”

There’s nothing he can do to keep himself from watching her leave, though he does everything to keep his gaze on the spot between her shoulder blades.

Any lower and he might pass out.

He’s only half-successful. 

When she returns with their trusty first-aid kit in hand, he’d almost expected her to be covered up. But no, she’s still in the same blue set that makes the muscles in his hands twitch, aching to touch her, just once. 

There’s a wrinkle in her brow as she looks down at his injuries, an expression he wants to smooth out. Her touch is gentle as she cleans his cuts, the tips of her fingers brushing across his rough skin making Peter shiver. 

“Just relax,” she soothes him. 

There are moments in her life where Michelle’s completely focused: any exam she’s ever taken, when she’s watching true crime mysteries, and when she helps her dad put up Christmas lights in the winter. Something strikes within her—exhilarating and devoted—and she feels it in the way her body reacts to muscle memory. 

Quickly she loops the needle, weaving it in his skin to help ease the healing. 

She takes a second time to wipe the dirty around it with alcohol. Other than slight winces of pain, the two of them remain silent. Like human nature. Like a memory that can never leave her heart. 

Michelle finds herself smiling only when Peter points it out. Her face feels warm after, but she answers with the truth: “You can’t admit this isn’t...nice.”

Peter swallows. He lets his eyes travel, pouring down her body with no shame this time around. When he meets her eyes again, she appears to have drank his gaze because she leans forward slowly and softly until— _buuuuuuuuuzzzzzz._

A muffled, “ _Hey is this Michelle's? am I at the right place.”_

 _Buzz buzz buzz_.

Peter’s heart sinks as Michelle lifts herself from her previous position. He longs for that proximity again. His eyes trail down her spine as she walks out of the room without a word, on her way to start her date, leaving Peter halfway stitched and fully alone.

 _Shit shit shit_ , she mutters inside her head as she runs out to the living room, grabbing the first sweater she can find hanging on their kitchen table chair before throwing it on and answering the door. She takes a deep breath as she cracks it halfway open, disheveled, and completely aware of it. 

“Hey! Brad!” she grins way too big for her liking. “Listen…”

Brad’s ear-to-ear, very large grin starts to fade. “What’s wrong?” 

“My roommate–uh–he’s kind of. He’s really sick right now, and I need to take care of him. His stomach is acting up. Of the diarrhea variety. It’s not very romantic in here right now.”

He blinks at her. She can’t tell if he’s amused or unconvinced or both. 

“Sure,” he accepts. “I’ll catch you later?”

“Okay.” She closes the door right away, not waiting for another word. She leans against the door for a moment, letting time catch itself up because the entire night has moved in double time. Another big, calming exhale. “Okay, okay, okay.”

Michelle only makes it halfway down the hallway before… pondering. _Should she take off the sweater?_

She’s almost convinced, but still afraid knowing that she couldn’t easily catch the way Peter reacted to her lingerie because she’d been too focused on his bod—fixing the wounds—on his body. 

Her throat is dry, but before moving back into Peter’s room, she hastily removes the sweater and drops it on the floor, too driven by fast-acting adrenaline to turn around and pick it up. Her heart is racing, jumping up and down her chest (certain Peter will hear the noise) as she finds herself just outside his door. 

With zero thought, her hand turns the knob and finds—just as the door opens—Peter groaning in pain attempting to crawl in an appropriate position onto his bed, sans suit. She frowns. 

“On a scale of one to ten, how mad would you be if I told you the stitches kinda ripped? Ten being the maddest.”

She rolls her eyes at his dopey grin. “Let me just–”

“Oh, it’s okay. The stitches are basically healed. I just have a bit of internal bleeding. But it’s a good thing it’s not outside, right?

“Peter.”

“I’ll be fine. You can go ahead and have your _something_ with Brad.” He immediately shuts his eyes in regret of not thinking before speaking. “I didn’t mean that.”

She snorts. “I made him leave.”

 _Oh._ Peter blinks as he finally lays back on his bed, the blood from the ripped stitches already drying. “Why?” 

“My roommate needed me.”

He pulls back his lips. “I see.” 

“I also… didn’t want him here in the first place.” 

“Oh.” Peter lets a breath escape his lips. He watches MJ’s body as the light from the hallway highlights her silhouette in the dark of his room. The window’s still cracked open, a breeze coming in that relieves Peter of the heat that’s coiling in his stomach, beads of sweat down his temples as he recovers from the pain, but comes across another, _harder_ issue. 

He throws a blanket over himself.

Michelle doesn’t hold back the way her mouth falls wide open as she scans Peter, the way his body looks when he’s just in underwear and a suspicious cover.

Out of context, this situation is something that only comes from her dreams, which don’t come as often as it sounds like. But they’re still there. And sometimes it’s not Peter, but she always wants it to be. She moves closer to his bed, placing herself on the edge. 

Yeah,” She trailed off, unable to keep her eyes from dragging down his body. She shrugs. “He just… wasn’t what I wanted.” 

Peter’s breath catches as he meets her gaze. “Oh?” He clears his throat, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he shyly scratches the back of his neck. “Then, uh–what… what is it… that you want?”

“I don’t know–” she sighs. “I want…” Her eyes study him, his body, and the way it tenses. She finds herself crawling closer to him with no hesitation, finally pushing past her fear as her curiosity is just about to burst. Then, she stops, just as their faces are inches apart. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hi.”

“Your collarbones look cool.”

She giggles, of all ways to laugh. _Embarrassing._ “Thanks.”

Peter’s laugh fades away. He clears his throat. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” she says. Her lip twitches.

“Okay.” He looks up at the ceiling as if he’ll find some words to use there. Then back down to her eyes as he takes a deep breath of bravery. “So why did you do all of this then?” Peter asks.

His hand softly ghosts her silk set, fingers playing with the delicate lace. Her breath hitches as she reacts to his barely-there touch. “I guess I just wanted an excuse for tonight to be special.” 

Michelle can see the entire universe in Peter’s eyes as it glows in the darkness of his bedroom. “Tonight _is_ special. You’re here. With me.”

She can’t help but snort. “I’m here with you every night.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, not taking his eyes off of hers. “You are.” He clears his throat. “I mean–what I’m trying to say is–” 

His sentence is interrupted with her lips, a delicate press against his asking for permission. He opens his eyes quickly, unaware that he had even closed them, being so thrown into the moment when they first connected that he can’t keep track of his movements.

Peter’s hands flatten on the small of her back, pulling her on top of him, her legs spread on either side of his body. She presses herself against his crotch. He nearly bucks his hips up, but holds back–promising to himself he’d take his time just in case this is the only chance he’ll get. 

Michelle presses her forehead against his as she hovers over him, eyes closed and a deep inhale to clear her mind of all the possibilities that can result from what they’re doing. 

Their next kiss makes the rest of the worry go away. 

When she pulls back, she smacks her lips teasingly and says, “You were saying?” 

“Oh, I forgot,” he offers a sheepish smile. “I mean, you kinda interrupted me.”

“Was it important?”

“Probably.”

He pulls her in again, open-mouthed and hungrier as their tongues touch for the first time, their shifting becoming more precise as they learn how to play with each other’s lips. She grinds on his half hard dick, feeling her own wetness pool between her legs—butterflies panicking in her stomach from how quickly Peter turns her on. 

He groans, pleasure rising in the back of his throat. “Are you always this wet?” 

“Only if you touch me right.” 

Peter lifts his eyebrows, sharpening his eyes as he looks into Michelle’s. Suddenly, she feels one of his hands move from her ass, squeezing it briefly before traveling to her center. He palms at her damp panties. She’s soaking, so aroused that it makes Peter ache. He bites his lip, shutting his eyes, feeling the way her mouth travels from his lips to his jaw and then his collarbones. 

He lets out a jagged breath when he sneaks one finger beneath the fabric, finding the bundle of nerves that make her flinch when he flicks over it. 

“ _Right there.”_ He obeys her directions, he listens to each hitch of breath or flutters around his fingers as he slicks into her. 

Boy, does he listen. 

She’s breathless, unable to feel anything but Peter’s god-sculpted hands toying at her as she mewls into his neck, goosebumps on his skin brushing against her nose. 

He winces and immediately pauses his movements. “Sorry, but, my hand’s cramping—is it okay if—”

Michelle’s response almost comes out as a whine, but the desperation is obvious to both of them. She undoes her lingerie set with zero patience. “Do whatever you want to me, tiger.”

Peter smirks. 

The silk slips off of her carefully. He turns them over gracefully, and the sight of him traveling down her body makes her toes curl with both nerves and a desire to be had—Michelle appalled by her own filthy fantasies, but too hooked on the high of Peter’s mouth warm against her cunt to care. He takes no time to get comfortable with her clit, the touch of him making her body vibrate as he moans into her; a sound escapes his lips dressed in neediness and endless affection.

Her response to Peter is automatic. She needs him. His mouth belongs, open and hungry, in between her legs, tongue working up and down relentlessly. 

Michelle’s never felt this before, the full satisfaction of two lovers built with the same romantic makeup in their bones, so similar that they find themselves ravaging each other’s bodies with his name crashing in her mouths as she gasps in complete pleasure, fingers carding his hair. 

Peter continues to build her up, one finger slipping into her easily, slick from the arousal he’d built when his mouth was buried in her taste. Now the tip of his tongue rapidly flicks her apex, she shakes uncontrollably, and he sticks a second finger inside with ease. 

“I’m close,” she reveals. Her confession makes Peter rut his clothed crotch against her shin from his intricate position above Michelle. He takes his mouth away from her clit with a wet inhale, increasing the speed his fingers are drilling into her effortlessly, helping her reach her climax. 

She whines out his name, then says it again in a breathless whisper. “ _Peter_.” 

He continues to pant. The strain in his boxers is unbearable. He longs to feel her warmth around him. He wants to know if he can show her how she makes him feel. His touch is greedy as his hands roam her body, never settling in one place, torn at wanting to feel all of her at once. It isn’t fair, he thinks.

The kisses he drags along her skin are hungry, lips needy as they find the valley between her breasts, her neck, the underside of her jaw, her cheeks, and finally her mouth. He marvels at just how nice it feels to be kissing her, to be with her like this. 

He’s more gentle as he pulls back, looking down into her eyes, searching her expression. A wavy, contented smile tugs at the corner of her lips. Her gaze flits downward and back up. “You have too many clothes on.”

Peter’s brow furrows in amusement. “It’s literally just my boxers.”

“Too. Many.”

“Fair enough,” he relents without hesitation. He sits up, tugging his boxers down, struggling only the slightest bit as he tries to get them off without falling from the bed. His face burns hot as her eyes instantly fall to him, painfully hard.

“Condom?” She breathes out.

A single word shouldn’t make his heart rate spike as much as it does. He grins. 

“Yup!” His enthusiasm makes her laugh, one of his favorite sounds in the entire world, as he instinctively reaches into the bedside table, pulling the foil package from a small box. Sitting back on his heels, he’s ready to tear it open, when her hand reaches out to cover his. 

“Wait,” she says, a tint of shyness to her voice that he almost doesn’t recognize. She smiles up at him from under her lashes. “Can I?”

In all honesty, Peter’s willing to give Michelle whatever the hell she wants. 

He nods, lips tugging into a lopsided grin as she tears the foil. 

His expression fades, mouth falling open as she wraps a hand around his base, rolling the condom on without breaking eye contact. And he can’t help himself, deciding it’s been far too long without his lips on hers; his hand comes to rest on her cheek, and he pulls her into another searing kiss, mouth moving slowly, effortlessly with her.

Her hands move to his shoulders as she falls back on the bed, guiding him with her as her legs instinctively wrap around his waist. Something tugs fiercely at his gut, feeling the heat from her hips, and he’s thinks for a moment that he might die if he’s not inside her in the next five seconds. But again, he maintains some sense of self-control, at least until she reaches down to hold him in her hand. 

Peter breaks the kiss, burying his face in the crook of her neck as she lets him go for a moment to coat her hands with her arousal, pumping him lazily. 

“Shit— _Em_ —”

If this is how good just her _hand_ feels—

He puts his hand over hers, his lips finding hers again as he pushes into her, and almost immediately, he groans, eyes screwing shut at how warm and wet she is, how he can so easily get lost in just the feeling of her _._ He hears her let out a shaky, yet contented sigh underneath him as he bottoms out, and he pushes up from her neck, planting a deceptively chaste kiss to her temple as he starts to move. 

It’s a feeling that strikes them both at the same time, a feeling of _finally_ as they move together, as they set a steady rhythm and pace. It’s almost dizzying, the feeling of her hands smoothing over his shoulders, one coming to twist in his curls, the faintness of her nails digging into his skin as he shifts the angle of her hips. The soft sighs and moans that spill from her lips are addictive, and he decides at that moment that he could listen to them forever. 

And Michelle finds herself lost in the delicious stretch of him inside of her. Her lips curve into a wavy smile as he breathes against her cheek, at the idea that he could fit her so perfectly. A wet moan falls from her when he hikes one of her legs higher on his waist, deepening his thrusts as he snaps his hips into hers. 

“God, you feel so good, Em—” He manages, voice thick with arousal. “So fucking good.” 

The strain in his voice makes her cheeks burn, her skin alight.

She thinks she might be seeing stars when one of his hands snakes down to scrub at her clit, timing each swipe with the roll of his hips. 

His name falls from her lips in a breathy moan, almost a whine, voice catching as rocks into her, thrusting harder. The string of curses that follow as he increases his pressure against her swollen bundle of nerves set him smiling into her neck. 

Her breathing grows more and more ragged, goosebumps blooming across her skin as he breathes filthy praises into her ear. 

“I—” Her mouth falls open, no other sound coming out as he sucks and nips on the underside of her jaw. 

“What is it, Em?” He asks, continuing to trail heated, wet kisses along her skin. 

“I’m _so_ close—”

Peter groans against her, the vibrations of his voice so close to her making her impossibly warmer, as he pushes her legs higher around him. The new angle is dizzying, and Michelle swears that she might be seeing God herself as his dick finds that spot inside of her so easily. 

It builds, the coil tightening within her, molten heat pooling between her legs. She clings almost desperately to him, chasing that feeling, eyes screwed shut as it twists and twists. Teetering right on that beautiful edge, she pants his name, and she comes with a wet gasp, muscles spasming around him. Waves of white-hot electricity shoot from her head to her toes as he works her through her climax, and it’s not long before he follows soon after, muscles twitching as his thrusts grow sloppy and uneven, filled with desperation as he chases her release.

The air is hot, yet light as he falls slumps down on top of her, his mouth dragging lazily along her skin, finding her lips eventually. Their breaths are heavy, the feeling of skin on skin, chest to chest, almost like a dream. 

When Peter breaks the kiss, there’s a shared breathless smile between them. 

“That was—” Peter starts, though he stops, unable to keep his grin under any sort of control. 

Michelle easily meets his expression. “Yeah,” she replies, sucking in a breath as he pulls out of her. “We should—”

“—do that again,” Peter finishes for her, biting the inside of his cheek at the adorable tint of shyness in her tone. 

“Definitely.”

“And again… And again… And again.”

The way her smile grows makes his heart flip.

“I really like you,” he says, the fondness in his voice making the air even warmer as he kisses her again, sweetly.

And again, she giggles. “I really like you, too,” and she kisses him before placing a hand on his chest. “But, I gotta pee. So, could you like… get off?” 

“I already did, though?”

The way she bites back her grin is impossibly cute, he thinks. 

“Peter!” 

“Fine, fine,” he says playfully, rolling onto his back. He sits up only to discard the condom before flopping back onto the mattress. 

“Hurry back,” he pleads in a tone that makes her roll her eyes. He watches her climb out of bed and walks to the door, his heart singing—cliche, but it’s how he feels—as he props an arm behind his head. 

Already, he misses her in his arms, underneath him, above him, and it’s in that moment that he finds his bed is much colder without her. 

But as she throws him another look over her shoulder, teasing that she may or may not come back, the cold disappears.

He really does like her. 

Peter wakes to pure warmth. 

His face is pressed against her shoulder, his arm draped over her bare waist. He stretches slightly, unconsciously pulling her closer to him. Her hair tickles his face, the tip of his nose, but he only burrows deeper into her, chasing the feeling. 

And not for the first time, he marvels at how impossibly soft her skin is. Something about her sleepy warmth as she snuggles back into him, still asleep, just _hits different._

He thinks he could stay here forever with his roommate. 

His best friend. 

It’s funny how long it took both of them to do this, to figure this out. 

It had been obvious to everyone else but them. 

How he didn’t see it, he has no idea. Everything’s right there, out in the open. He knows exactly how she likes her tea, how she takes her coffee with a splash of milk and nothing else. 

He knows her favorite true crime documentary.

Her favorite flower—

Dahlia’s—

SHIT.

THE BACKPACK.

Forever turns out to only be five minutes before he’s jumping out of the bed. He looks back at her sleeping form, feeling his heart soar at seeing her so peacefully in _his_ bed. 

He nudges her awake, she grumbles, and he adores her, then notifies her that he’ll be back before she notices. As he slips out of the window in his still-torn up suit, she says loud and clear, “You didn’t need to wake me then, dumbass.”

“You’re so hot when you talk to me like that, Em.”

“Shut up. Good night,” she crawls back under his pillow. He pauses, watching the sun cascade rays down onto her glowing skin. She lays with a sense of private tranquility that Peter’s never seen before. 

The morning looks good on her. 

He shoots a web to the nearest wall outside and swings away, searching for the backpack’s intersection.

A gust of gentle winds run next to him as he soars between the buildings—the rush inside him never getting old, but the feeling doesn’t come in comparison to how he felt last night.

Finally, he remembers the correct coordinates, locates the backpack, and swings back home. 

He stumbles in, still apparently not learning his lesson from yesterday. Michelle is startled. He states, “You stayed.”

“I did.” Her voice is tired, but so cute he wants to hear it over again. 

“I couldn’t bring you back dessert because I knew it’d spoil.” He sticks his hand inside his half-opened, worn up, and irreplaceable backpack. He pulls out a bouquet of crushed dahlias, wilted enough to make potpourri. “I have these though.”

He places them gently in her hand. Her heart swells. 

“I’m sorry they’re broken.”

This is better than just a takeout dessert or perfect timings or melting into each other’s worlds so naturally. This is all of those things and more—a combination of all the joyous laughter and traceable history they share. The colors of all their loves, from the very moment they met to the exact moment they both realized they could be something more, begin to blend. 

Michelle tightens her grip around the stem of her flowers that have taken a journey of their own, ups and downs, before coming back home. 

They remind her of something—of someone. 

“It’s okay.” She looks into his eyes, and his signature smirk softens. “I kinda like it better broken.” 


End file.
